


we can survive on dreams, can't we?

by xsprinkledheart



Category: Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, this took me most of the afternoon wthhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 20:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19934152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsprinkledheart/pseuds/xsprinkledheart
Summary: Colors cannot thrive in a world of gray. Percival learns that, but it is not easy.





	we can survive on dreams, can't we?

If one has pretend, they can travel the world without having to leave at all. Children can play games, pretend that they are heroes travelling the expanse of the world saving maidens and defeating monsters left and right. The hero wins in the end - maybe there are breaks for when they are tired and must go to bed, but they win in the end and they are happy.

Percival has his dreams and fairytales. He has lived but not survived on playing pretend, and has joined the ranks of the heroes he wanted to be. He is a knight of Camelot, fighting for justice. This time he clutches a real sword made of metal and not a flimsy tree branch, and the helmet he wears on his head is rusted and not woven from the soft petals of flower crowns. 

He has seen blood. He has seen fire. But, Percival reminds himself, he has not seen everything. He can fight and eliminate the worst the world has, because the people before him have tried and succeeded in taking small steps. The knights of the Round Table were the ones who stepped up to the challenge, and while they have not succeeded in everything their accomplishments are not null and void.

And now it is up to him and Galahad to continue - they will do so on their quest for the Grail, and then will move onto the world. 

He meets Galahad when they are first very young, and then they meet again. It’s when Percival is still raised as a “she” by his mother - even when she refers to him as “he” in front of visitors that make her jaw clamp and her teeth clamp - and wears silk dresses instead of armor, and wears his dark hair in heavy braids down his back. Galahad is only nine, and he cries about the bloodied knee he has gotten. Percival has never seen the blonde, bespectacled boy before. He has no bandages or salve to treat the wound. So he does what he knows best: Plays pretend.

Bright green eyes blink at Percival as he sticks his tongue out and blinks, and the crying turns to snickering. Galahad, because that’s the boy’s name, comes back again, and that’s when Percival really has someone else to play pretend with him. They play games they can’t quite remember and can’t quite forget, but by the end Galahad always has to run back down the dirt path in the woods to where he lives and Percival is left alone again. When Percival is alone one day, he sees the angels that don’t have wings, shining in their armor, and he tells Galahad about the angels when he meets up, and how for a split moment he wondered maybe if he died he’d become one.

“Those aren’t angels,” Galahad says.

“What do you mean?”

So Galahad tells him that he has seen knights and that is when they play pretend about things they remember. They live and consume and breathe their dreams - dreams about riding through the land in shining armor, upholding chivalry and saving people and chasing away evil. Galahad says that in a few years he will leave for Camelot with his mother and he will become a knight like his father before him.

“I promise that I’ll find you so we can become knights together.”

Galahad blinks a little. “You promise?”

Percival smiles. “Promise. They’ll tell stories about  _ us  _ one day - they’ll tell stories about you and me.”

Percival keeps his promise.

He is twelve years old when he shows up to Camelot. He remembers how even after he had to go against the knight that invaded their home his mother still says that he is too young and that he doesn’t deserve the fate his fathers and brothers got when they were knights. Percival thinks it’s stupid, because if he is fighting to pave the way for good at least he will die doing so. So when he comes to Camelot they are already telling stories of the strange boy dressed as a girl, whose torn dress is splattered in mud and the sword he clutches in his hands is too big for him and stained with blood. The king - a man whose soft features and kindly eyes have been hardened in the storybooks Percival had at home - says that yes, Percival can become a squire.

They take him away to clean the dirt and blood matting his hair to his face and he hears whispers about how he’s a poor thing, and how it’s “incredible” that “a child” was able to endure what he did. Percival does not know what to think of being called a boy. While he does not use the word “she” and knows he is no girl, he doesn’t quite think it right to be called a boy either. Maybe there is an in-between, but for now he’s a boy and maybe later he’ll find something. But for now the word boy is enough.

They give him new clothes different from the dresses he has worn and they say that he needs to cut his hair. It is alien, Percival decides when he reaches a hand up to feel cold air against his neck, to not have his hair weigh down against his back like it has for so many years. So when his hair is cut he leaves it a little longer - he doesn’t quite think he’s a boy, and maybe he doesn’t want to completely leave behind what he has.

He is going to train as a knight under Sir Kay. Sir Kay is a tall man with dark hair that covers one eye and looks like the sort of person whose voice would be all harsh and sharp, but when he speaks his words are low and warm. 

“It’s nice to meet you.” He shakes Percival’s hand and stares back at the brown eye that is visible. “I have another squire who you’ll be studying with - Galahad!”  
He has not even seen the squire’s face or heard his voice but Percival thinks he knows. _Did he just-_

Galahad - the same blonde boy with green, green eyes peering from behind glasses - comes running. He pushes past Sir Kay when he sees Percival and tackles him to the ground in a hug. They have found one another after playing pretend for so many years. This isn’t pretend, though. This is real.

“You kept your promise,” Galahad mumbles to him.

He does not see Galahad’s face, but Percival hopes he smiles. “You thought I’d break it?”

“I’m glad you’re here, though. I’m glad you made it.” The hug Percival is cradled in grows tighter, and he feels as though his ribs might snap.

“Um, Galahad?” he says. “It - sort of - hurts-”

Galahad pulls away and Percival gasps for air. A hand reaches out to help him up and he takes it. They will grow up to be heroes together, and this time they will wear real armor and fight using real swords. There is a spark of good out there in the world, and if they can help it that spark will grow into a flame and the evil they’ve fought against playing pretend will be burned away.

“Sorry,” Galahad still holds his hand, “I missed you. But like I said, I’m glad you’re here.”

Then he smiles, and it is something to see.

They are the youngest among Camelot’s knights, and people say that they are things they’re not. The women and men at court titter about how they’re rivals pitted fiercely against each other, but whenever they had played pretend before as well as now they don’t clash. At least that isn’t what they think. 

Everyone  _ else  _ seems to make it into a competition. But the truth is Percival does not bat an eye when they talk about Lancelot’s son Galahad anymore and about how if the Holy Grail is real then he will find it when he is older. Percival is able to tune them out and force the words to become background for him. If he does not notice them they will not sting.

It all still does, though. While he does not mind being the one to fade into the background as a part of the scenery while Galahad takes the lead role, he still notices the strings that jerk him around in the play. He notices how Galahad smiles a little sadly when Arthur’s words are kind - Lancelot doesn’t say such things about him, Percival sees - and how regardless of how much he laughs whatever smile he bears fades away at the mention of his father. He notices all the murmurs about how “pure” and “innocent” Galahad is, and notices the way Galahad shudders and tries to elbow his way out of crowds when he sees the way some of the ladies look at him. His safe haven is always the chapel or with Percival, it seems, because it is there Galahad does not have a father to worry about or the weight of the world to carry on his shoulders. He does not have to be Atlas holding up the sky, for a moment he can toss the burdens aside and really be himself.

It seems as though Galahad cannot stray too far away from holding the sky up, though.

They sit near the chapel, swords tossed aside as they chomp on the apples they’d gotten earlier that day. There were far too many for them to carry, yet here they are sitting as the sun sets and the sky rusts to orange, and the apples are crisp and sweet.

“If you eat too many, you might get sick.”

Percival crunches into his - third? fourth? - apple. His hands are sticky and the grass itchy against him where he sits, but he ignores it. “Don’t worry,” he says, “‘M always hungry.” When he finishes the core is tinged yellow and brown, and he spits the pits out into his hand.

“Today was fun,” Galahad says.

“If Arthur invites again, we should go. I liked apple-picking with you and Arthur and Mordred and Laurel.”

Though Galahad smiles, Percival thinks that he is Atlas again and is reminded that he has the sky to bear on his shoulders. He remembers today - seeing Galahad carry Laurel on his shoulders so she could reach for the trees and didn’t have to hop around, him and Arthur laughing like father and son. He hasn’t seen Lancelot do that with him, he realizes, never saw Lancelot hold Galahad’s hand in his as they walked home, never greeted him and ruffled his hair the way Arthur did. Arthur is a father Galahad does not have, and Percival wishes he could understand - maybe if he had a father who hadn’t died fighting for the world he’d understand what it is Galahad misses but has never had.

This is not the way things are supposed to be. They’re supposed to be far, far away from all that in the safety out near the chapel, aren’t they? They have their hopes and dreams to cling to, and those hopes and dreams will become true in the end. He should not have to bear the weight of the Grail and a ghost of a father and everything here.

Galahad tastes sweet and a little bitter like apples. Percival realizes this when he shifts and presses his lips against Galahad’s. There is a moment of Galahad unresponsive, but he reaches his hands up to touch Percival’s face - for a second Percival forgets that one day he’ll be married off to some girl whose name he will not know, and that this is not the way everyone else thinks they should be. Because for now they can play pretend when no one else knows.

A lump rises in Percival’s throat and he pulls away. Reality crashes down on him with stunning force. He can still taste apples.

Galahad blinks at him and reaches out. When he speaks his voice is hoarse and subdued. “Percy-”

But Percival leaves. Reality tastes bitter and poisons his tongue, and he runs back to the castle, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. It’s only for a moment but Percival thinks he knows what bearing the sky on his shoulders feels like.

“I’m sorry.”

The words come out small and Galahad comes close to dropping his sword.

It has been a week and they are the rivals they are made out to be. They have not forgotten playing pretend and still know that a single spark of good can envelop the world in flame, but Percival keeps his distance. He forgot that there are rules to playing pretend, and even if it is just a game he does not want to break the rules. So they play a new game, pretending that they are the rivals the court wants them to be. It is enough to make them forget Lancelot and the grail and apples and kisses for a little while - or rather, not quite forget but dulled enough.

The sun beats down too warm on Percival’s back.

“What are you sorry for?” Galahad asks. He lets his sword fall to the ground.

“Sorry for running off like that,” Percival mumbles. “Shouldn’t have. Should’ve said something. And I’m sorry for… doing that without asking you about it first.”

“It’s okay.”

Percival drops his sword. If they are not going to fight by the blade or with words, he has no need for a weapon. Although perhaps, he decides when Galahad pulls him into a pile of leaves, he should not have let his guard down.

“That’s your payment for running off like that!” Galahad’s words are supposed to be harsh, but the high-pitched laughing in his voice is most certainly not. Percival kicks around in the leaves, stirring up reds and oranges and yellows and browns as he sits up. And then he begins to laugh too.

He rolls against Galahad again and reaches his hand out to his face, but just as he is about to move in closer he stops. When he sees the nod, Percival closes the gap and they lie there in the leaves, his lips on Galahad’s. The autumn air is cold, but in the blanket of leaves and grass the two find warmth.

He pulls away but still has one hand against Galahad’s hair, the other clasping his neck. This time they actually forget that Galahad must bear the weight of the sky on his shoulders. They have their dreams and they can pretend that is not the way things are, and that is enough.

They play pretend for two years, ever since that kiss in the leaves when they’re both fourteen. Two years of sparring and training to become knights at sixteen, and everyone oohs and ahs at them and how young and new they are. They are welcomed to the Round Table, although while Lancelot shakes Percival’s hand his eyes are still cold towards Galahad, his own son. Percival knows it isn’t fair, but for now they don’t have to play pretend because they are knights now. They will both light the candle, hot and dripping with wax, and then leave it behind to burst into flames and spread good everywhere. There is a spark of good in the world, they just have to seek it and never let go.

Percival begins to wonder if it is not as easy as he thought it was. Galahad always asks if they can stay the night together. Sometimes he feels tears wet on his shirt, sometimes he hears Galahad sniffling in the darkness of the room. There are times when he enters and Galahad’s eyes are pink-rimmed, but he does not ask if he has been crying. He thinks that perhaps if he does, something - everything - will shatter. And Percy wants to preserve what he has for as long as he can.

This doesn’t happen all the time, though. Tonight, Galahad pulls him close and his face is dry when Percy cups his cheek. He shifts closer and the covers rustle over him. Winter has fallen and the heavy blankets are near suffocating, their heads cradled against pillows that are a little too plush. 

“After the quest, where do you suppose you’d go?”

Percival cannot sleep, and neither can Galahad.

“Away” is Galahad’s answer. “I want to see what the country’s like outside of Camelot.”

That’s not the real answer and Percival knows it. Or rather, it is not the entire answer. He thinks Galahad means to say “I want to go as far away from this place as I can, as far away as I can from my father.” He would not call Lancelot “father”. He never does. But Percival keeps his mouth shut in favor of dreams and looking for a spark of flame in the darkness of the world.

“I’d want you to come with me,” Galahad says. “There’s a lot I haven’t seen of the world, and I’d want you to see it too.”

“Anywhere you’d suppose you’d go?”

Galahad exhales and curls his arm around Percy’s waist. “I haven’t thought much of that. I just know I want to leave Camelot. We’d get to actually live together once we get old enough, right?”

Percival does not want to sleep anymore. “Yes, we would. I’d want to have a big castle, and we could have it be near a forest-”

“Lots of trees, too, so we can go apple picking. And collect berries.”  
“We’d still travel, though, even if we’d live together. Even after the Grail. I want to see more of the world and have more adventures with you.”

Percival falls silent, although there are no words needed. He closes his eyes to let the warmth of sleep envelope him. Their dreams are blurry, of travelling the world on a white horse and they are laughing and smiling together. He knows he won’t remember, which is why hopes he will not wake up so soon.

The night before the Grail quest he actually witnesses Galahad cry.

He is seated on the bed, face buried in his hands as he lets out deep, shuddering sobs. If he notices Percival he does not look up. He just remains there, and it is only when Percival reaches out a tentative hand to press against his shoulder that he looks up.

His eyes are red-rimmed and the tears damp on his face have not dried yet. He still lets out muffled hiccups, and when he reaches for Percival’s hand he squeezes it as if he might slip away. He notices the bruises patterned blue and green blooming across his knuckles, but this time neither wants to speak just yet. So Galahad pulls Percival close and begins to cry again, tears wet against Percival’s shirt.

He peels away from Percival and begins to harshly rub at his face. “I shouldn’t - be crying - so much-” he forces out. 

Percival pulls his hands away to wipe away the tears. He still stays silent.

Galahad laughs, creaky and forced. “I shouldn’t be crying in front of  _ you _ , either. Not supposed to, I guess.”

“You don’t have to not do anything,” Percival says. “I don’t see anything wrong in you crying.”

But that’s just him, Percival realizes, and not the rest of the world. The Galahad the rest of the world puts on a pedestal is so very different - and inhuman, perhaps - compared to the one Percival knows.

“I’m just… I don’t know, Percy. Everyone tells me that I’m - that I’m better than my father, and the thing is I don’t  _ want  _ that. I don’t want to hear it, because he just keeps pushing me  _ away _ because of it. I hate knowing that Arthur treats me more like a son than… than  _ he  _ ever has. And the thing is I’m not sure I want all of this. They say they like me, but what if I mess up? What if I make a mistake? I… I don’t know, I’m just scared and I’m not even sure the Grail is worth all of this anymore…”

Percival has no words to offer. He thinks that he too is subject to the prying eyes of Camelot’s court, but either he has never noticed or he has forced himself not to. He always tells himself that he has his dreams and it all goes away when he just plays pretend like they did when they were little, but is that really the right way? Because maybe turning a blind eye and pretending the pedestal he walks on may not break beneath his feet means he will not notice when one of them falls, and they’ll be too late to hold onto each other. They cling to each other and tell themselves that there is a spark of good that will grow into a flame because it is all they have, and they still fiercely hope that the spark will not be snuffed out.

It is only when he hears himself that Percival realizes he is crying, too.

“Forget the Grail,” he says when he thinks he cannot cry anymore. “Let’s just run away.”

Galahad does not answer.

“Let’s just run away like you promised we would once it ends. Let’s just go far away from here. I don’t  _ care  _ what happens on the quest, I just don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t know if Bors notices, I don’t know if Gawain notices, I don’t know if Arthur notices, I don’t know if anyone even  _ wants  _ to notice. But it doesn’t matter. There’s better ways to spread good through the world, and it’s just not like this. It shouldn’t have to be like this.”

The words feel like broken glass against the inside of his mouth, because Percival is not even sure he completely wants to leave. There is his castle back home, but he knows for sure that his mother is long gone and his sister married off, and that if they decide to leave Camelot behind right now they will be noticed. And what about Mordred? What about Laurel? He does not want to come back to Camelot after spending so many years with Galahad only to find that the little things he took for granted have slipped away. And he became a knight at Arthur’s court for the very purpose of spreading good. He cannot break the promise he had. They are trapped and forced to play their parts in this play.

They do not speak of running far away from here. They do not speak of anything. Percival lets Galahad bury his head against the curve of his neck and shoulder when they lie beneath the thin, rumpled sheets, but neither seems to fall asleep just yet. He will stay here, Percival decides, until Galahad falls asleep and he does not feel the tears half-dried on his face.

Galahad’s uneven breathing begins to slow, and he shifts a little against Percival. They will forget about the Grail and tomorrow morning in their sleep - for now it is just the two of them.

Percival begins to sit up now that Galahad’s eyes close, but before he can get out of the bed he feels a hand squeeze his.

“Don’t go, please,” he pleads.

So Percival lies back down and realizes he doesn’t want to leave either. He does not want to be anywhere else but here, where he can hear the beating of Galahad’s heart as he begins to fall asleep.

“I won’t.”

He tells himself that he is helping by going on this quest. Even though his stomach clamps at the sight of blood on his sword, Percival tells himself that he has seen it all before. It is just another quest, he tells himself, and part of his job as a knight of Camelot is to pave the path that he said he would. It is no game, no playing pretend like it was when he was a child, but this is all he has.

Once the beast is dead, its fur matted dark red, Percival falls to his knees. He waits for the prickling taste of vomit in his mouth, for his collapse. But he does not. He just stays there, trembling against the weight of the armor he wears.

Percival realizes then that if anyone is to find the Grail, it shouldn’t be him. He has dwelled on thoughts that others would say are selfish of him, with his wondering if he and Galahad could ever just run away and never look back, and he has placed the thought of his living together with someone and not having to think about his quest anymore above his faith. He is a traitor, he thinks to himself. He does not deserve to wear the armor or Camelot’s crest, he does not deserve to clutch a sword in his hands and sit at the Round Table.

If anyone deserves to find the Grail, it isn’t him.

“The beast is dead,” Bors tells him. He wipes the blood that rusts his sword.

“Sorry,” Percival mutters. “Just… tired.”

It is not a lie, but it is a dam that pushes back the entire truth.

“Let’s go. They’re waiting for us back at camp.” Bors begins to walk away, leaving Percival alone with the corpse of a monster in front of him.

He stands up, hands still shaking. He thinks about how he did not really even feel anything then, and did not feel anything now. The strain of adrenaline was absent, he did not feel his heartbeat thud in his ears when he saw the beast’s glowing yellow eyes and fangs dripping with spittle. He did not feel a thing at all.

And Percival thinks that is the way it should be. Even if he does not deserve what he has now.

If he just does what he is told and does not think about how undeserving he is, he will not feel pain anymore.

Even though he tries to numb himself, something happens to make everything sting all over again.

He hears shouting from inside the tents that they have set up for the night. Percival forces himself to tune it out through the tapping of the rain that falls - he has done this before with the nobles, he is doing it with the quests he has till the Grail, and he will do it now. So long as he does not think to listen whatever is happening would not even exist.

But he recognizes the voices. Galahad and Lancelot.

The mask shatters, and he listens.

“She spoke of how you were there,” Galahad shouts, “the best among them. Somewhere along the line she must not have realized the person who you really are!”

“Your mother stripped me of everything I  _ could  _ have been, and left me a shadow. I keep trying to fix things, but it’s all broken beyond repair because of you!” 

There is Lancelot, and something burning breaks through the usual coldness of his voice

“Fix things? If anything, you do nothing but break and break and break! I keep trying to reach out to you - I want things to get better, I want things to be alright, yet you’re the one constantly turning your back on me! The family I’ve found amongst Arthur’s is because of your isolating yourself!”

“I turn my back on you because it’s your fault that I’m your shadow now! It’s all your fault!”

“I-”

“It’s all your fault.” Lancelot’s voice has grown icy again. There is silence. Then-

“Galahad-”

“Don’t bother trying to say anything, Father, You’ve said enough. I don’t even know why I call you ‘father’ - if anything, our own king is more family to me than you’ve ever been.”

The tent flaps open and Galahad walks out.

“You heard, didn’t you?” He does not look at Percival.

Percival looks at his hands. He does not want to face those green eyes, probably sharp. 

“Yes.”

Galahad pulls up the hood to his cloak. He pulls Percival close and presses a kiss to his lips. It isn’t warm and sweet like the other kisses they have shared in secret. It is as cold as the rain they stand in. His hands are wet when he cups Percival’s cheeks. When he pulls away there is a ghost of a smile on his face - a smile Percival has not seen since the quest for the Grail began. It disappears, though.

“I’m going to find the Grail myself,” he says. He swallows. “I just feel like being with…  _ him  _ is too much for us both. He isn’t going to be proud of me in the end, I know that. But at least they’ll have found it, and maybe that’ll be enough.”

Percival remembers how they would talk about the castle they would live in once the quest came to its end. How they would travel the world together. The games they would play all those years ago in the forest.

Galahad smiles, and it is the first false smile Percival has seen him wear. “I promise to find the Grail for you, alright?”

“Even if you didn’t I wouldn’t mind that. Really. I wouldn’t.”

They know that they cannot run away now. They would be found too soon. But Galahad is not running away. He charges ahead because the only constant in his life he has had is his faith in God and his faith shared with Percival. And his smile is bright and false in the gray rain. Nothing Percival says will convince him to stay.

“Goodbye, Percival.”

He does not go after Galahad when he climbs onto his horse. He feels as though his hands are made of stone when he moves them to wave farewell one last time. This is the first time that he can remember that Galahad has not called him “Percy”.

“Goodbye.”

Something inside him breaks.

Galahad finds the Grail, and Percival finds him soon after.

He thinks that maybe if he had been there a little sooner it wouldn’t have been like this. Perhaps if he’d chased after him and begged to go with him, or forced Galahad to go back that it wouldn’t end up like this. Galahad is collapsed at the foot of the altar, so gaunt and in armor too big for his starved and broken body. It has only been two years, Galahad should be twenty now, yet he looks far older than he is supposed to. The Grail shines on the altar and Percival wants to smash it to pieces.

He pulls Galahad into his arms and stares at his hollow face and green eyes that aren’t supposed to be this dull. Galahad winces a little with every breath he takes, and there are scrapes and cuts and burns and probably more wounds beneath the armor that Percival doesn’t want to think about. Yet when he looks up into Percival’s dark blue eyes, he smiles. It is a real one, and not the sort of false grin he gave Percival when he left to find the Grail two years ago.

“You found me…” His voice is so faint Percival almost doesn’t hear him.

“It’ll be alright. We found the Grail, we can go home now, you aren’t going to-”

Galahad shakes his head. Percival clutches his hand as though  _ he’s  _ the one dying.

“Percy?” He blinks. He has not heard that nickname in two years. He thinks back to when he could still play pretend, back to when they were all little secret kisses and eating stolen berries. Tears distort his vision but he still forces himself to stare down at Galahad.

“Could you sing for me?”

He thinks back on all the nights before the Grail. Back when they could still play pretend, when sometimes he would hum whatever song was currently stuck in his head so that the both of them could fall asleep with music in their dreams. Sometimes Galahad would join in.

He brushes Galahad’s hair away from his face and nods.

“I will.”

It’s something he remembers that his mother would sing to him whenever she’d tuck her in. The notes are off key from how much it takes him to not cry, and the song comes out as broken and tuneless, but Percival still forces himself to sing. There are words, but their meaning is alien to him. And it is there in his tuneless, broken singing that Percival realizes the truth. Whatever spark of good there was in the world is too small to start a fire, and it may have already been snuffed out long ago. He has tried to play pretend and force himself to block out the pain of being wounded so that he can still think that a fire is possible, but in the end the flame is going to be snuffed out by the wind and he will have nothing left save for a brief afterimage of blue-tipped fire that glows in the dark before it’s completely gone. He has played naught but games with Galahad up to this point, thinking that it was all just one big play and they were the actors in it. That isn’t the way it works, though - rules are broken, people get hurt, and accidents happen.

He’s too busy singing to cry, but he does not finish when he feels Galahad shift one last time in his arms. His eyes have closed for the last time, and he reaches up a feeble hand to touch Percival’s arm. He mouths the words “thank you” and then goes limp in Percival’s arms. 

Galahad dies before Percival can finish singing, a smile painted on his chapped, bleeding lips.

Percival stays there. The song has sapped him of all energy he has to cry, to move, to think beyond what there is now. All he has left is the ability to play pretend one last time. So that’s what he does.

Percival closes his eyes and plays pretend one last time

He pretends that Galahad has fallen into a heavy, dreamless sleep in his arms, and that he will wake up soon. They will wake up in the morning where he will shake Galahad awake, and it takes him dotting kisses all over his nose and cheeks for him to get out of bed. He has just fallen asleep while Percival sings to him, and that is all. The morning will continue as normal and they will go on their adventures through the castle together, and when night comes he will stay with Galahad until they fall asleep tangled in each other’s arms. It is all just another day for them back at the castle they call home.

Percival does not open his eyes when he presses one last kiss to Galahad’s forehead. His skin is cold, and even though the warmth of playing pretend has vanish Percival wonders if a kiss would be enough to wake Galahad up like in the stories. That question is snuffed out.

He does not want the other knights to find him like this. He had no control of a thing up to now, the only thing he has control of is making the mechanics of his body move again.

So with his heart making everything seem heavy, with all that has happened draining the colors from his sight, Percival cradles Galahad in his arms to carry what was once someone he loved with all his heart away from the darkness of the dungeon and towards the brightness of the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> this was painful to write
> 
> that's all i got now i'm going to drown my sorrows in pocky at 12 in the morning goodnight ladies and gentlemen and distinguished non-binary folk and take care


End file.
